She checked her tuning, then played “Boys of Blue Hill,” pausing after each measure to listen. Gary’d played it so beautifully in Baltimore it was clearly a signature piece for him.

Nothing.

She played his love for his wife. His decision to follow his dream. The secret that convinced him he had nothing to lose. The cats; singly and collectively.

And more nothing.

“Well, fuck you. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

Charlie stepped out of the Wood at the Forks in Winnipeg and called Dave Clement.

“Gary Ehrlich? Yeah, he gave me a call yesterday. I sent him to Vermont. George Frost’s band has a line of gigs at small fall fairs through New England and his bouzouki player broke his wrist teaching parkour in Jersey City. Frost’s playing Art on the Street tonight and tomorrow in Carter, Vermont, then I think he’s heading into Connecticut. Give me a minute and I’ll find the list of where he’s heading after that.”

“Thanks, Dave, no need. I’ll catch him in Vermont.”

*   *   *

Charlie came out of the Wood in a cemetery, near a section of Civil War graves surrounded by trees large enough to have been planted at the same time as the dead soldiers. Many of the graves, even those so worn the names could no longer be read, had the sticks of paper flags pushed into the earth by the stones. Those who’d left the flags hadn’t intended their offering to stake the dead in place, but, fortunately, the dead were beyond intent. As a result, Carter had one of the most peaceful cemeteries Charlie’d ever been in.

The sky was clear and the temperature was about fifteen degrees warmer than it had been in Calgary. After tucking the guitar back in the gig bag, she unzipped her jacket, shook the damp out of her hair, and checked to make sure the charm etched into the glass had set her watch to local time.

She could hear “Ashokan Farewell” playing as she made her way toward the street, and it took a moment to realize the music wasn’t inside her head but coming from a stage down the road to the right.

Art in the Street was just that. Art. In the street. To Charlie’s eye some of the art looked more like craft and some of the craft looked more like kitsch, but Auntie Kay made corn husk dolls she sold for a stupid amount of money to tourists, so Charlie had to admit that her idea of art was fairly basic to begin with. The dolls, Auntie Kay explained, were perfectly safe as the tourists had no idea who the dolls represented. In that instance, intent counted. Auntie Kay’s intent had always been to take as much money from the tourists as possible.